


Germans and Australians

by linoleum_ice



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Federal Agents, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23935936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linoleum_ice/pseuds/linoleum_ice
Summary: “Are you usually like this,” says Nico finally, “or is it an Australian thing?”or,the Interpol au
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Daniel Ricciardo
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28
Collections: F1 Fandom Unity Exchange





	Germans and Australians

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the assignment, and thanks for writing! Stay safe!  
Disclaimer: I know nothing about hacking

“Do you believe in true love, Nico?” Daniel muses as he stares pensively into the middle distance, finger tracing the rim of his cappuccino. The sky is blue, the weather is warm, the café is delightfully quaint, and its waitstaff delightfully polite. 

Ideal conditions for questions like these, Daniel would say.

Despite this, the silence through his earpiece is telling. Daniel’s yet to meet the handler the Germans have assigned to him, but he can almost envision the disembodied voice’s annoyed squint. He’s that sort of guy, Daniel feels. 

“Are you usually like this,” says Nico finally, “or is it an Australian thing?”

Daniel looks sideways and shrugs at the surveillance camera.

“Don’t fucking do that!” Nico says in a hushed shriek. “You’ll give yourself away, Jesus Christ, what do they teach to down there?”

As it happens, it’s also ideal conditions to commit large-scale fraud.

In the middle distance, the fraud committers in question blend seamlessly into the rest of the coffee sippers across the street.

“I think _I_ believe in true love--” And look, Daniel’s an unconventional guy. If his methods don’t make handlers at least a little nervous, he’s not doing it right. Long in short, he knows what he’s doing and he does it well. Criminals like these are sloppy, they think they’re too rich to fail but too mundane to be suspicious. They don’t have the foresight to get security watch them talk money laundering over a breakfast, let alone the vigilance to notice some guy shrug at a wall. It’s the people who know what they’re doing that’s the biggest pain the ass. Those are the guys that get the jump on you. “—but it’s difficult, you know, even if I find true love, how am I gonna hold down a man with what I do?”

“Man, eh?” says Nico.

“If you say some stupid shit, I’m going to throw this thing away.”

“What? No, I don’t care about any of that stuff. There are gay people at the Bureau and they’re very open with it, it’s not a problem. I’m pretty sure the other Nico—Nico R—had a thing with Sebastian from the field departm—”

“Nico. Nico—fuck, they’re moving,” says Daniel.

“They’re moving?” asks Nico

“That’s what I said.”

“On foot? In a car?” asks Nico, accompanied by a flurry of typing.

“They look like they might get a cab. I’m gonna pay the bill then I’ll tail them. Am I supposed to tip in Germany?”

“Who cares! Just go!” Yells Nico as Daniel slips what is probably too many euros under his saucer. The targets are walking leisurely down the footpath and one of them scans the road every few steps. 

“Make sure they don’t get a cab before I do,” Daniel says, making haste down the adjacent road.

“That’s not as easy as you might think it is,” says Nico.

“You’re a tech genius, mate, you can handle it. Just do your magic.”

Nico inhales so deeply, Daniel picks it up through the static.

```

Daniel's never been to Monaco before, but it's mostly what he imagined; like the richest suburb in Australia, cranked up to eleven. And it really is like a suburb, he thinks as his cab winds down a quiet residential lane, being under half an hour away from the nearest French town. 

The cab driver pulls up to an apartment complex at the next cul-de-sac and announces their arrival by pointing wordlessly at the right block. It's tall, nondescript, and probably not for millionaires. Daniel suspects the cab driver knows this, given the nonchalant service. He pays the fare with a quick 'ouais, ouais, merci' and makes work hauling his luggage out the trunk and to the lobby. 

At the door, he punches in the floor and apartment number. The call goes through in three rings.

"Allô, qui est-ce?" comes a boyish voice, tinny through the speakers. 

"Are you the man of the house?" asks Daniel. He suspects the boy isn't, but Daniel is not the sort of guy who passes up the opportunity to fuck with people. 

"I'm _one_ of them," says the boy, moderately accented, and Daniel is stopped from asking for the door by the indiscernible conversation that follows between the boy and someone else in the background. Shuffling ensues on the other end, then a frustrated 'ay, donne le moi'. 

"Who are you," says the new voice. 

"Daniel Ricciardo from Interpol. I can't say anything else through your lobby phone," says Daniel.

There is a sizable pause, long enough that Daniel fears he may just put the phone down there. But the voice returns, no less frustrated. "Okay, Daniel Ricciardo. Just so you know, if you are here because Mattia wants me to come 'visit' him at the Bureau, I will call the police," the new voice warns, and the glass door unlocks with a cheerful _beeeep_.

So this is Nico’s miracle worker, Daniel thinks on the lift ride, all in all, a pretty bad start to this whole consultation thing. He hopes it's just a case of a bad mood and this guy doesn't chronically have a stick up his ass, because if that’s the case, he's not sure what he'd do next.

At the apartment door in question, Daniel finds it already open with a bright-eyed kid in school uniform, looking at him with barely restrained curiosity. 

"You're from the Interpol?” asks the teen, stepping aside to let him through. “Do you have a gun?”

"Shut the fuck up, Arthur,” the new voice appears, like a visage, to block his further entrance. Arthur opens his mouth to protest but met with a pointed glare, he gives Daniel another awed look, then slinks back into what Daniel assumes is his room. He turns his attention back to the man who eyes him suspiciously through his glasses. 

He’s younger than Daniel would expect, but he supposes such is the norm now for internationally acclaimed hackers. _And_ he’s good-looking, not in the way normal people are, but like he lives in an arthouse film or the centrefold of a high-end fashion mag. Daniel doesn’t forget faces, but he doesn’t exactly _think_ about them either. He suspects this case may be an exception.

“Charles Leclerc?” Daniel asks, extending a hand, despite knowing the answer. 

“Yes.” Charles shakes it but drops it quickly. “Who sent you?”

“Nico Hulkenberg from the Wiesbaden NCB.” Charles’ frown deepens. “He says you might be able to crack open a computer for us.”

“And you are from the German Bureau as well?” Asks Charles.

_Ja, I’m German. Gluten tag._ “I’m with Canberra. We’re working with them on a financial case.”

Charles scoffs. “Obviously Nico thinks there’s more to it if he’s pulling out this favour. Give me what you have. And come in.” 

Daniel sends of a silent word of thanks to whatever god is watching while he’s let in, past the living space and into Charles’ workspace. Curtains were drawn, lights flashing, all multitudes of tech stuff neatly arranged on racks. Predictably, a gaming chair sits proudly in the centre. Daniel says nothing and procures the laptop from his luggage. Charles gives it a cursory look over, then plops down into his chair. 

“So,” Charles boots up the laptop. “What’s this all about? You usually work with the Germans?”

“No. Never. It’s… Do you watch Formula One?” 

Charles raises an incredulous eyebrow. “What.”

“It’s about the Melbourne grand prix,” explains Daniel. “Both the Germans and my colleagues have been following this group involving a couple of sponsors. It’s unclear if anyone in Formula one proper is getting their hands dirty, but that’s beside the point. We’re trying to catch them in the act while they’re all in one place and this hunk of metal should have most of the convictable evidence.”

“Ah, I see. I’ll get to it then. This will take some time,” says Charles.

“I’ve got all day,” says Daniel with the small beginnings of a grin.

```

“—and basically he accuses me of watching the race live on taxpayer money. Which, I mean, isn’t wrong, right, but I’ll be there for law enforcement as well and I’m sure those asshats have swindled much more than the price of my ticket from the government, so it cancels out, or whatever.”

“Daniel.”

“Nico. What’s up.”

“I am _sure_ you did not call me just to tell me about Charles.”

“Alright, alright, calm your farm, mate, I was getting there. After that, he asks me if he can come to the Melbourne GP as well since he’s also working on the case. Which isn’t wrong! He did a great job, I’ll get the data back to you and you can see for yourself. And the little one made a casserole as well and it was very nice so I think he should come as well.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Gangsta.”

```

In a secluded corner of the Albert Park paddock, Sebastian hands Daniel a case of spy bugs. It’s early in the race day while the exhibition parades get set up, people are milling about, but the buzz won’t properly get started until a good few hours later.

“You just handle the north wing for now,” says Seb. “I’ll deal with the Mercedes hospitality, then we can regroup in say—“ he checks his watch “—half an hour. The rest is not so important. We can check the time then and see what we have to work with.”

“Awesome,” says Daniel.

Seb grins and pats the side of his shoulder. “Good to work with you again, man. It’s been a while.”

The job is cut and dry, nothing Daniel hasn’t done tens of times before. It’s not exciting, or dangerous, or particularly sexy, but it has to be done and there’s real satisfaction in seeing a tangible cause and effect for his hard work. That’s what he likes about law enforcement. Push a button and something happens.

That being said, he’s finished up bugging all the spots Seb had arranged with one spare bug left over when he spots Charles across the corridor as he closes the last door. He throws his arms up, ready to give an enthusiastic greeting, but Charles starts running at him with a wild, panicked look in his face, making a cutting motion at his neck. Daniel shuts up and reaches for his holster purely by instinct, his brain too frazzled to determine who the threat is here. 

Charles slows to a stop in front of him and gestures at his ear and mouths: _turn it off_. Slowly, and with a fair amount of scepticism, Daniel does as he’s told. Charles does it again, this time mouthing: _off?_

Daniel nods slowly. “It’s off.”

Charles deflates, breathing heavily from his short sprint and Daniel waits with a hand still on his holster for Charles to explain himself. 

“Nico Hulkenberg,” he finally says, “is a _fucking_ rat.”

“A rat,” Daniel repeats, 

“Rat, mole, mole rat, whatever the fuck you call it in English. He tried to set me up for it. Piece of shit. Planted evidence and everything. I only know because that laptop you had me crack was a bit Nico-y. So I came here to look around and—” he pauses to breath “—there are bits and pieces everywhere that lead back to me. I know it’s hard to believe, but I can prove it. It’s hard to explain if you don’t understand me, but I can prove it with computer stuff. Where’s your other guy, I need to talk to him.”

Daniel takes a good look at Charles. He doesn’t look like he’s lying and Daniel’s usually pretty good at telling the difference, but, god, who knows. Who knows who’s telling the truth. He trusts Nico, his handler, colleague, fellow Interpol agent. Charles is practically a stranger next to him. But in an awful way, he trusts Charles more. He’s doesn’t know what Nico looks like, but he’s been to Charles’ house, ate dinner with him, played Fifa with his brother. It’s awful. It’s very un-Interpol. 

But sometimes, he just has to trust his gut. 

“Okay,” says Daniel and Charles breaths a shaky sigh of relief. “Seb’s nearby.”

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr @stop-beeing-them


End file.
